The Borrowed

by Chan Ho-Kei

  THE BORROWED

  Chan Ho-Kei

  Translated by Jeremy Tiang

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  About The Borrowed

  SIX INTERLOCKING STORIES.

  ONE SPELLBINDING NOVEL.

  The year is 2013, and Inspector Kwan, Hong Kong’s greatest detective, is dying. His partner Detective Lok has come to his deathbed, to seek help from his mentor with one final case.

  Then we move backwards into their past, through six different but interlocking murder cases solved by Kwan and Lok in fifty years on the Hong Kong force.

  Where there is murder, there is humanity. This bold and intricate crime novel spans five decades of love, honour, race, class, jealousy and revenge, set against the shifting landscape of one of the most intriguing nations in the world.

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About The Borrowed

  Epigraph

  PART I: THE TRUTH BETWEEN BLACK AND WHITE (2013)

  PART II: PRISONER’S HONOUR (2003)

  PART III: THE LONGEST DAY (1997)

  PART IV: THE BALANCE OF THEMIS (1989)

  PART V: BORROWED PLACE (1977)

  PART VI: BORROWED TIME (1967)

  Afterword

  About Chan Ho-Kei

  About the Translator

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  I will well and faithfully serve Her Majesty and Her Heirs and Successors according to law as a police officer, I will obey, uphold and maintain the laws of the Colony of Hong Kong, I will execute the powers and duties of my office honestly, faithfully and diligently without fear of or favour to any person and with malice or ill will towards none, and I will obey without question all lawful orders of those set in authority over me.

  — HONG KONG POLICE OATH,

  version used until 1980

  I

  THE TRUTH BETWEEN BLACK AND WHITE:

  2013

  1

  INSPECTOR LOK HAD always hated the stench of hospitals.

  That antiseptic tang was wafting through the air now, assaulting his nose. It wasn’t that he had bad memories of these places, but the reek reminded him too much of a morgue. He’d been on the police force twenty-seven years and seen countless corpses, yet still couldn’t get used to this smell – but then who, necrophiliacs aside, gets a thrill out of dead bodies?

  Lok sighed, his heart even heavier than when he had to oversee an autopsy.

  Standing by in his neat blue suit, he gazed disconsolately at the occupant of the lone bed, a white-haired man whose eyes were shut, his wrinkled face ghastly pale beneath a respirator mask. Fine tubes pierced his liver-spotted hands, connecting them to several monitoring devices. A seventeen-inch screen above the bed showed the patient’s vital signs, lines wavering slowly from left to right the only thing showing he was still alive, not a well-preserved corpse.

  This was Inspector Lok’s mentor of many years, the man who’d taught him everything he knew about crime solving.

  ‘Sonny, let me tell you – you don’t solve cases by meekly following the rules. Sure, among the uniforms, obeying orders is an ironclad principle, but as officers our first duty is to protect civilians. If the rules cause an innocent citizen to get hurt or impede the course of justice, that’s ample reason to disregard them.’

  Lok smiled grimly as he recalled these words, variations of which were never far from the older man’s lips. Since his promotion fourteen years ago, everyone had called him Inspector Lok, but his mentor continued to use that ridiculous little-boy name, Sonny. After all, as far as he was concerned, Lok really was no more than a child.

  Before his retirement, Superintendent Kwan Chun-dok had been Commander of the Central Intelligence Bureau’s Division B. The CIB was the agency in charge of researching, gathering, and analysing crime reports from the various regional bureaus. If the CIB were the brain of the police force, then Division B would be its prefrontal lobe, the part responsible for deduction, sifting and sorting information, pulling together clues to reveal what even eyewitnesses might not have noticed. Kwan had begun leading this core group in 1989 and had quickly become the guiding spirit of Intelligence. In 1997, Constable Sonny Lok had been transferred to Division B, becoming Kwan’s ‘disciple’. Although Kwan was only Lok’s commanding officer for half a year, he continued working as a police consultant after retirement, which gave him more opportunities to guide Sonny, twenty-two years his junior. For the childless Kwan, it felt like having a son.

  ‘Sonny, waging psychological war against a suspect is like playing poker – you have to mislead them about your hand. Say you’re holding a pair of aces, you have to make them think you have low cards of different suits; but the worse things get, the harder you bluff, making them think victory is within your grasp. That’s how you get them to give themselves away.’ Like a father instructing his child, Kwan passed on every one of his tricks.

  After many years together, Lok treated Kwan like his father, and knew his personality inside out. While others referred to Kwan as ‘Sir’, Lok called him ‘Sifu’, which meant ‘mentor’ in Cantonese. His colleagues in the force gave Kwan all kinds of nicknames: ‘Crime-Solving Machine’, ‘Eye of Heaven’ or ‘Genius Detective’. Lok thought the most suitable was something Kwan’s late wife once said: ‘He’s basically the sort to count every strand of dead grass. You might as well call him Uncle Dok.’

  In Cantonese, ‘Uncle Dok’ is a common name for the tightest of tightwads. It also happened to share the last syllable of Kwan’s own name. Thinking of this pun from so many years back, Lok couldn’t help smiling.

  Scarily capable, fiercely independent, obsessively attentive to every detail – this was the oddball character who’d lived through the leftist unrest of the sixties, the police mutiny of the seven-ties, the violent crime of the eighties, the transfer of sovereignty in the nineties, the social changes in this new millennium. Across all these decades, he’d quietly solved hundreds of cases, silently filling a glorious page of the history of Hong Kong policing.

  And now this legendary figure had one foot in the grave. The gleaming image of the police force he’d built up had started to fade, and by now, in 2013, the profession was looking distinctly tarnished.

  After ridding themselves of corruption in the seventies, the Hong Kong Police had earned the reputation of a selfless, reliable organization. There might have been the occasional black sheep, but the vast majority of the populace were able to see these as exceptions What changed this view was politics. In 1997, after the territory was handed over from Britain to China, a society that had once been able to contain different value systems began to be torn apart into political factions. Rallies and protests became more heated, and the use of hardline tactics against protesters provoked murmurs about where the police really stood. The police were supposed to be neutral, but when the clashes impinged upon government institutions they seemed to hold back rather than performing with their usual superb efficiency. People started insinuating that in Hong Kong, power was now able to crush justice, and that the police were just the stooges of those in authority, closing one eye when it came to groups supported by the government, serving no one but the politicians.

  In the past, Inspector Lok had refuted such criticisms. Now, though, he was starting to suspect they might hold some truth. More and more of his colleagues seemed to regard their position as just a job, rather than a sacred calling, and did nothing but follow orders, the same as any other salaried worker.

  Now and then, he’d hear the refrain, ‘The more you do, the more mistakes you make, so better do less.’ Whe
n he joined the force, back in 1985, he had been motivated by a longing for the status of a police officer – the duty to keep the peace and uphold justice. These new officers seemed to regard ideas like justice purely theoretically. Their goals were to maintain a good discipline record, rise through the ranks as quickly as possible, safely reach retirement and start drawing on their generous pensions. And as the public began to notice the growing prevalence of this mindset, they thought less and less of the police.

  ‘Sonny, even... even if the public hates us, our superiors force us to act against our consciences and we find ourselves attacked on all sides... don’t forget the basic duty and mission of the police... make the right decision...’ the superintendent had gasped shortly before losing consciousness, fighting for breath and clutching Lok’s hand.

  Lok understood very well what the ‘duty and mission’ were. As the head of the Kowloon East Crime Unit, he knew he only had one task: to protect the people by catching criminals. When the truth was obscured, he had to turn chaos into order, justice’s final line of defence.

  Today, he would ask his mentor to spend what might be left of his life to help solve a case.

  The afternoon sunlight sparkled on the azure bay outside, dazzling as it came through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Apart from the machine noises indicating the patient was still alive, there was also the tapping of a keyboard, coming from a young woman in a corner.

  ‘Apple, have you finished? They’ll be here soon.’ Inspector Lok turned to her.

  ‘Almost done. If you’d told me sooner you wanted changes to the program, it wouldn’t be in such a mess. It’s not hard to change the interface, but coding takes time.’

  ‘I’m relying on you.’ Inspector Lok knew little of computers but completely trusted Apple’s skills.

  Apple didn’t even look up to speak to him, focusing on her keyboard. She wore an old black baseball cap, under which were loose brown curls and a face completely free of make-up, thick black-framed glasses perched on her nose, a black T-shirt and some ancient overalls, plus flip-flops that revealed toenails painted black.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  ‘Coming,’ he called. In that instant, his expression returned to its customary alertness, like a hawk sighting prey – the eyes of a criminal investigator.

  2

  ‘SIR, THEY’VE ARRIVED,’ said the inspector’s subordinate, Ah Sing, opening the door. Behind him, a stream of people came single file into the hospital room, their faces betraying doubt.

  ‘Mr Yue, I’m grateful you could find the time to come.’ The inspector left Kwan’s bedside and crossed the room. ‘It’s good that all five of you are here. If anyone had been busy, the investigation might have been delayed another few days. Thank you all.’

  His courteous words were, the assembled company knew, just a veneer of politeness. After all, what lay before them was a murder case.

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector Lok, but I don’t understand why we need to be here.’ The first to speak was Yue Wing-yee. Normally, the police interviewed eyewitnesses or suspects at the station, or else at the scene of the crime, not in a single room on the fifth floor of Wo Yan Hospital in Tseung Kwan O. This private hospital happened to be part of the Yue family’s holdings, but that had absolutely nothing to do with the case, as far as Wing-yee knew, and he could not imagine why they were here.

  ‘Please pay no attention to the family connection, it’s just a coincidence. Wo Yan happens to have the best facilities in Hong Kong – so it’s no coincidence that our Police Consultant was transferred here a short while ago.’ Inspector Lok explained smoothly.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Yue Wing-yee still seemed uncertain, but asked no further questions. Dressed in a grey suit and rimless glasses, the thirty-two-year-old still had a boyish look about him, despite now being the head of his family’s firm, the Fung Hoi Consortium. Wing-yee had always thought he might take over the business someday, though he hadn’t expected the burden to fall on his shoulders so suddenly. After his mother’s death and his father’s recent murder, he’d had no choice but to assume this role and to take the lead in dealing with the police.

  Since finding his father’s bloodstained corpse the previous week, he had been thinking of his older brother’s accidental death more than twenty years ago. He couldn’t stop seeing his brother’s face, and each time a spasm of bitterness surged up his throat. It had taken him years to escape the pall that early death had cast over his own youth, and to get used to the nausea each time he recalled it.

  The recurrence of this ache brought home to Wing-yee that he could never completely forget Wing-lai’s death. All he could do was mutely accept his responsibilities. If Wing-lai were still alive, he’d definitely be able to handle this situation more calmly than me, thought Wing-yee.

  Even though he felt nervous every time he had to speak to Inspector Lok, Wing-yee was much more at ease in the familiar surroundings of Wo Yan than the stark police station. He wasn’t a doctor, but nonetheless knew the hospital intimately – not because of his senior position within the consortium, but because during his mother’s last illness, he’d visited her here every couple of days.

  Before that, he’d inspected the place once a year at most. Fung Hoi had many other property and shipping enterprises to look after; in fact, these were the backbone of the business. Wo Yan was not a particularly lucrative investment, but it brought prestige to the consortium, leading the field in importing innovative techniques from abroad – minimally invasive surgery, DNA testing for hereditary diseases, radiation treatments for cancer.

  But then, as if in a third-rate melodrama, he found that owning this hospital with its advanced equipment and impeccable staff was no help to Mrs Yue as she lay dying of cancer aged fifty-nine.

  ‘Inspector Lok, you and your colleagues have been bothering us for quite a few days now. I’m guessing it’s when you can’t solve a case that you need to make this kind of fuss, to show your superiors you’re trying?’ This came from the young man standing behind Wing-yee – Yue Wing-lim, eight years his junior. Unlike his sophisticated brother, Wing-lim came across as rather frivolous, decked out in fashionable, expensive clothes, his hair dyed bright red. Even when speaking to a police officer, he appeared to have no fear – it seemed there was nothing that could frighten him.

  Wing-yee turned to glare at his younger brother, though to be honest he’d been thinking the same thing, as had the other three people present – Wing-yee’s wife, Choi Ting, the Yue family retainer Nanny Wu, and their private secretary, Wong Kwan-tong, known to everyone as Old Tong. They’d all been summoned to the station the previous week to make detailed statements, and no one had any idea how answering further questions could aid this investigation.

  ‘The Yue family is so well known, and Fung Hoi so important to Hong Kong’s economy, the media is scrutinizing every detail of this crime,’ said Inspector Lok slowly, not seeming to take offence at Wing-lim’s words. ‘This case is being taken very seriously at the highest levels, and we hope to solve it as quickly as possible, so as not to cause a scandal in the business world. That’s why I’ve had to seek help from my mentor, and why I’m asking you all to spend a little more time going over the case.’

  ‘What superpowers does your mentor have?’ Wing-lim’s barbed tone suggested he had no high regard for this officer.

  ‘He’s ex-Superintendent Kwan Chun-dok, former Director of the Hong Kong Island Crime Unit. Now he’s a special consultant. No crime is unsolvable where he’s concerned. In more than thirty years on the force he has a hundred per cent success rate.’

  ‘A hundred per cent?’ exclaimed Wing-yee, astonished.

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘You... you must be exaggerating. How could anyone have a perfect record?’ Wing-lim no longer sounded as certain of himself.

  ‘Could I enquire where this Superintendent Kwan is?’ asked Old Tong, the white-haired secretary. He glanced at Apple, tapping away at her keyboard in a corner of
the room, but it seemed unlikely this girl in her early twenties had headed a Crime Unit.

  Inspector Lok turned to look at the bed. It took everyone a second to realize this was his answer.

  ‘That old man is Superintendent Kwan?’ gasped Yue Wing-yee.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s... what’s wrong with him?’ Wing-yee regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Illness ought to be a private matter, and asking so directly could annoy this officer he’d hoped to get on his side.

  ‘Liver cancer. Terminal.’

  ‘So this... old geezer is going to solve my daddy’s case?’ Wing-lim continued to sound irreverent, but in fact had made an effort by swallowing the words ‘decrepit wreck’.

  ‘Wing-lim, be more serious.’ This came not from his older brother, but from Old Tong. Wing-yee pursed his lips in displeasure, but said nothing.

  ‘Inspector Lok, did you bring us here to repeat our statements for this... this Superintendent Kwan?’ asked Choi Ting. She seemed unused to being lady of the household, and spoke with a desperate fear of saying the wrong thing.

  ‘Precisely.’ Inspector Lok nodded. ‘My mentor is unable to travel to the Yue mansion or the station, so I had to trouble you all to come here.’

  ‘But... can he speak?’ Choi Ting stared at the old man. She’d been a doctor before marrying into the Yue family, and seeing the tubes in the patient’s mouth and nose, not to mention his respirator, she knew this wasn’t possible.

  ‘No, nor move. He’s in a coma,’ said Inspector Lok dispassionately.

  ‘So we’re too late!’ exclaimed Wing-yee.

  ‘What stage?’ asked Choi Ting.

  ‘Stage three.’ This meant no eye movement, speech or physical activity.

  ‘If Superintendent Kwan can neither speak nor move, how will he help you?’ asked Old Tong. ‘Inspector Lok, is this a joke?’